


And Now

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hand Jobs, Hawkeye clint, M/M, modern!Bucky, pizza delivery, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:16:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22720831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: Bucky's worked for Gino's Pizza since he was fourteen, because it's decent money and even with an assistantship and a grant, grad school isn't paying for itself.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 49
Kudos: 310





	And Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hawksonfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawksonfire/gifts).



> Happy Valentine's Day!

The first time Bucky delivered a pizza to apartment H, it was May and it was unseasonably hot, and Bucky wanted nothing more than to deliver the pie and then get his ass back to the air conditioning of Gino’s Pizza three blocks away.

The first two knocks went unanswered, and Bucky had to resort to pounding on the door with his fist before it finally opened.

A tall guy, white with sandy-colored hair, a bandaid on his forehead and the swelling of an unmistakably fresh black eye almost distracting Bucky from his bright, blue eyes, stood in the doorway and looked down at Bucky.

The guy looked like absolute shit.

In addition to the bruising on his face, both of his hands - one on the doorframe and one on the door - were swollen and bleeding.

In complete contradiction to his face and hands, the guy was wearing a crisp, black suit and a clean, white shirt. He had a dark purple tie around his neck, yanked almost totally free from its knot.

Bucky stared.

The guy lifted his eyebrows in a silent, tired question.

Right.

Bucky hefted the pie, and the sight of the Gino’s logo had the guy’s eyes brightening.

He reached into his trousers pockets, pulled out a wallet and tossed a fifty onto the pizza box still in Bucky’s hands.

“Uh, how much change?” Bucky asked, because the pie was only twelve dollars.

“Keep it,” the guy said, voice low and rough.

Bucky hesitantly pocketed the fifty and handed over the pie.

The guy took it, not even closing the door before he opened the lid on the box and lifted out a piece.

Bucky winced, imagining the guy burning the hell out of his mouth. But when his - definitely swollen - lips closed over a tendril of steaming cheese, the guy closed his eyes and sighed in pleasure.

Bucky started to back away, but-

Fuck it.

“You okay, man?”

The question shocked the guy. He choked on the pizza, coughed, and then winced.

“What?” His voice sounded even worse now.

“Are you okay?” Bucky repeated.

Because… he didn’t know shit about this guy. But it was 10am on a Tuesday and the guy looked like he had picked a fight at a funeral or a wedding. And Bucky… could kind of relate. If not to either scenario, at least to feeling as awful as this guy looked.

“Nah. Not even close.” The guy gave Bucky a smirk, somewhere between self-deprecating and miserable.

“Can I… help?”

The guy stared at Bucky for a second, then laughed, loudly, as if Bucky had just told a hilarious joke.

And then he closed the door in Bucky’s face.

—

That night, Bucky fed his cat.

Watered the two ferns on the windowsill in the kitchen.

Piled up the stack of mail from his box.

Washed his coffee mug from that morning.

And then he sat down on the edge of his bed and ate a pepperoni hot pocket for dinner.

While he ate, he browsed twitter, mildly curious to see whatever random shit had caught his sister’s eye that day.

What he found was a photograph of the guy in Apartment H, standing beside-

Shit.

What the fucking shit?

It was the Avengers. 

Captain America, uncowled and in a dark suit and tie. The Black Widow in a sleek, black dress. Tony Stark in black from head to toe. Dr. Bruce Banner, the Hulk, in a dark suit looking uncomfortable as all hell.

And beside the Black Widow, looking unbruised and cut-free, was Apartment H.

Bucky clicked the hyperlink below the photo.

_ Avengers Attend Memorial Service for Those Who Lost Their Lives During the Invasion of New York. _

So why was Apartment H there?

Bucky read the photo caption.

_ Captain America, Black Widow, Hawkeye, Iron Man and The Hulk attend service. _

Hawkeye.

Shit.

Fucking shit.

-o-

It was two weeks before Apartment H ordered another delivery, and Bucky didn’t even bother to pretend he wouldn’t kill Kyle if the asshole delivered it instead of him. 

Armed with the pie, a knot of anxiety, and a seriously fucked up case of hero worship, Bucky knocked on the door to Apartment H and waited to see how fucked up Hawkeye would look today.

Or, Clint, according to his order. Except Lu had taken the order over the phone, and the name scrawled on the receipt looked less like Clint and more like -

The door opened to Bucky’s second knock and Apartment H, Hawkeye, Clint was suddenly there looking down at Bucky with tired blue eyes and - 

And wearing sweatpants that looked a gentle breeze away from falling off his ass and not a single other piece of clothing.

His bruises and split lip were looking good. Just some greenish-yellow-gray splotches around his eye and jaw and ribs and -

“Pizza,” Bucky said, jerking his gaze up from the trail of golden-brown hair that led from Apartment H, Hawkeye, Clint’s belly-button down to the very, very,  _ very _ low waist of his sweatpants.

He got a slow, slight smile for his idiocy, and then was rewarded by the gods themselves when Apartment H, Hawkeye, Clint turned around and gave Bucky a perfect view of his perfect ass in those very thin, very clingy, very  _ low _ sweatpants while he went in search of his wallet.

Once again, a fifty dollar bill was dropped on the box still in Bucky’s hands. And once again, Bucky felt fucking awful taking it.

“Change -”

“Keep it.”

Apartment H, Hawkeye, Clint took the box out of Bucky’s hands while Bucky pocketed the bill.

And they stood there staring at each other, in silence, like two totally normal people, in a totally not weird at all scenario.

“You want to -”

“Can I -”

Their voices overlapped, and both men stopped talking at almost the same moment.

Apartment H grinned and Bucky was… not at all prepared for  _ that _ .

“Wanna come in and share this with me?” Apartment H asked, still grinning, and Bucky’s mind and body and, probably, the universe screeched to a halt. Because that look? That tone of voice? That wasn’t an invitation to share pizza. That was an invitation to get dicked down. 

And that wasn’t, not really, where Bucky had thought this was going. Sure, he’s  _ wanted _ it - had, okay, who wouldn’t have, been fantasizing about it for the last two weeks because, even bruised and still a little bloody and looking fucking  _ miserable _ , Apartment H, Hawkeye, Clint was hot as fuck. 

But, as it turned out, Bucky was a fucking idiot.

“I’m still on shift for another two hours,” he said, because he was  _ a fucking idiot _ .

Apartment H nodded, taking it in stride.

Bucky licked his lips, watched the way the movement drew the other man’s complete attention.

“But after I get off?”

Apartment H, Hawkeye, Clint gave him the most predatory and satisfied smirk in perhaps the entire history of the human race.

“Just knock. I’ll save you a few slices.” He winked.

And then he closed the door in Bucky’s face.

Again.

-o-

Because the world hated Bucky - why not? - by the time he was clocked out and shoving past fucking Kyle to get out of Gino’s and haul his ass back to Apartment H, he was sweaty, had flour in the crease where his neck met his shoulder and a fucking sauce stain on the back of his shirt because  _ fucking Kyle _ .

If he wasn’t convinced standing up Hawkeye would result in never, ever again getting an invitation to ‘share his pizza’, Bucky would have skipped going back to the man’s apartment and just… gone home to wallow in all the gross that he felt.

But, well, Bucky was an idiot but he wasn’t an  _ idiot _ . He hoped.

So he showed up at Apartment H and knocked and the door opened and Apartment H, Hawkeye, Clint was just as gorgeous, just as barely dressed as he had been hours ago. 

“I’m Bucky,” he said, stupidly.

It got him another brilliant grin, anyway.

“Clint. You uh, wanna come in?”

Why the hell wouldn’t he want to?

Bucky stepped forward and Clint stepped to the side and what in the  _ fuck _ they actually tripped each other up.

Clint laughed, steadied Bucky with a hand on his hip, and Bucky tried to think of how words worked.

By the time Clint had closed and locked the door, he still hadn’t remembered. But, he couldn’t help but notice, the precarious hold Clint’s sweatpants had had before the tangle of his feet with Bucky’s was even more dangerously low, showing off not only the sharp curve of Clint’s hip but also the hint of -

“You smell like pizza,” Clint said and Bucky jerked his gaze up.

Clint looked amused, but there was also a slight crease between his eyebrows.

“Uh, yeah, I… work at a pizza place,” Bucky said, in case they were  _ both _ fucking idiots.

Clint’s lips twitched, but then he reached out and ran the pad of one long finger around the base of Bucky’s neck.

Bucky shivered, somehow managed to remain upright, and then blinked when Clint held up his finger and showed off the flour.

Fuck.

Right.

“I, uh, there’s sauce on my shirt too,” Bucky said and jerked a thumb towards his back. Because he was a  _ fucking idiot _ .

Clint grinned at him.

“Why don’t we take that off, I can throw it in the wash for you,” Clint suggested, not seeming at all put off by Bucky’s state of… being.

“Uh…” He was still having problems with words. And using them.

“If that’s okay with you?” Clint still looked amused, still looked like he had seduction up to 11, but there was hesitation in his eyes and the stillness of his hands.

“Very okay with me,” Bucky managed in a rush, but the words were understandable enough for Clint, at least, because the next moment was one full of warm hands on Bucky’s belly as Clint slowly pushed the shirt up.

Clint managed to work it up and over Bucky’s head, with minimal assistance from Bucky, and then Bucky was shirtless and Clint was staring down at him as if he  _ was _ pizza.

Clint even licked his lips.

“Pants need to be washed too?” Clint asked, voice lower, rougher, a grind against Bucky’s already pathetic self control.

Bucky managed to nod, and Clint reached for Bucky’s fly and Bucky finally remembered - realized? - he had hands of his  _ own _ and -

And suddenly they were on the floor, Clint on his back and Bucky sprawled across him, Clint’s hands on his ass and Bucky’s tongue in Clint’s mouth and Bucky may or may not have broken an elbow and both knees but it didn’t  _ matter _ because Clint was rolling them, curving his body over Bucky’s and raking his teeth over Bucky’s tongue in a tease or a warning or who the fuck cared because it was  _ everything _ .

It was… not so much a blur, as a mess, a complete jumble of limbs and groans and breathless laughter and a tangle of clothing. But, somehow, they managed to get naked, or naked enough because Bucky managed to kick off his shoes but not his socks and  _ fuck that was so fucking embaressing _ and he was fairly positive that the elastic band in the waistband of Clint’s sweatpants had well and truly died the good fight but - it didn’t matter. 

They were both naked and Clint had his wet hand - he’d made Bucky lick the palm himself and then groaned and fucked Bucky’s mouth with his tongue for long enough that his hand had needed to be licked again - on Bucky’s dick and Bucky had Clint’s dick in hand and they were kissing and biting each other and fucking  _ hell _ it was a rush.

And then they were still there, laying on a cold, hard floor, in a tangle of clothes and a jumble of limbs and somehow Clint was the one with come all over his belly and Bucky wanted to never, ever move again, even with Clint’s bony as fuck knee wedged under his ass.

“So,” Clint eventually said, the one word sounding like it took superhuman effort to get out.

Bucky rolled his head to stare at Clint. Clint was staring back at him.

“It’s nice to meet you, Bucky,” Clint said.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Bucky muttered.

Clint laughed, loud and surprised and  _ bright _ .

And Bucky grinned and shoved his knee away and rolled closer.

Clint pulled him against his side, licked at the sweat and flour on his neck.

-o-

Two months later, when Bucky dragged Clint to a family dinner, Becca asked him what he could possibly see in Bucky. 

And Clint grinned, held Bucky’s hand under the table and looked at Bucky with so much blatant affection that Bucky wanted to crawl under the table. 

“He smelled like pizza,” Clint said, as if that was any kind of real answer.

Becca pronounced them _both_ _fucking idiots_ and not even their mother scolding her for language made Bucky look away from Clint.

Yeah. 

They probably were.

  
  



End file.
